


Box It Up

by deinvati



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, POV Eames, Secret Saito, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deinvati/pseuds/deinvati
Summary: The thing was, Arthur probably thought he looked immaculate.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> For [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja) as her Secret Saito gift, who has been dealing with moving and grown-up, real-life things, and who should have the happiest of Christmases!  
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Prompt: Pristine

Eames balanced his stack of newspapers on top of the tray of coffees in order to open the warehouse door.  It had been a pretty productive morning thus far.  He’d followed the mark for an hour, topped off the petrol in their shared car, and picked up some pick-me-ups.  

“Eames, need a… handwhat are you wearing?” Arthur asked, a look of distaste twisting his mouth.

Eames handed the coffees over and looked down at himself.  “What?”  The trousers he’d worn yesterday, and the shirt wasn’t new, although Arthur might not have seen it before. But the jacket… he’d bought it on a whim, spent more than he usually did, and he liked it.  It was blue, a bright, azure colour that made him think of beaches with white sand and hammocks and palm trees.

Arthur snorted and walked off with the drinks and Eames smirked to himself.  The thing was, Arthur probably thought he looked immaculate.

Eames was a master at lying to others, but he never lied to himself.  He could admit that every morning when Arthur sauntered in, sunglasses on and hair slicked back, he looked fantastic.  He could have walked off the cover of GQ.  Arthur-in-the-morning looked polished and confident and delicious.  His three-piece suits were legendary in dreamshare, the bespoke stuff of daydreams.  Skinny ties elongated his torso, his tie pin, precisely nestled between his third and fourth button, broke up the line elegantly.  Tailored trousers hugged his thighs in ways that made Eames’s mouth water and he’d had more than one fantasy where he’d run his hands, followed by teeth, up those very thighs.

Eames moved to the desk he’d claimed as his own, setting down newspapers and firing up the computer.  But his eyes followed Arthur as he walked around handing out drinks to the rest of the team.  

It was 10:30 am, which meant that Arthur-in-the-morning was starting to make way for Arthur-after-lunch.  He wasn’t completely after-lunch yet, obviously, but it was on its way. You could watch it coming, like an avalanche: slow and inevitable from a distance and decimating up close.  

It always started with the jacket, which was gone by 9:00 at the latest.  He hung it if possible, of course, but sometimes the best option was the back of a chair or, god forbid, the arm of a couch.  Eames had no idea what he did if neither of those things was available.  

Once he’d taken the jacket off, the tie pin was always next, tucked in the inner jacket pocket so it wouldn’t get lost.  Then the sleeves would get rolled back, and this was Eames’s favourite part.  He’d start with two rolls, but those would get pushed over the elbow as the day went on, revealing wiry, tanned forearms.  As Arthur bent over mazes and flipped through files, his clothing was the last thing on his mind, and it started to show.  He’d tug on his tie, just once or twice, enough to loosen it, then he’d lose his waistcoat if he had one to lose.  It was in conjunction with some kind of thought process or brainstorm as if the tight-fitting material was constricting more than his body and he needed room to _think_.  

If the waistcoat was gone before lunch, Arthur-after-lunch would be a bear.  He’d growl and snap, but he could get mountains of work done single-handedly.  If the waistcoat was still there by the time someone brought food, he’d take it off to eat, securing it with his jacket.  Then he’d settle in, picking at whatever salad he’d ordered while scouring files.  He still got work done, but those were usually the nights that he’d knock off at a halfway decent time, heading back to his hotel room to watch hockey and eat Vietnamese takeout.  

Occasionally Arthur would offer to get food, but this was bad and Eames tried to make sure it didn’t happen.  It threw off the entire cycle because he’d put everything back on and delay the appearance of Arthur-after-lunch, which was a shame really.  Because Arthur-after-lunch was delightful.  He’d rock back in his chair, balancing on the back legs, and his shirt would stretch over the small of his back every time he sat it back down.  His shirts never came untucked, they were too nice for that.  But they’d pull up, just a touch, to where there’d be a small roll of fabric that sat at his waist.  Eames’s fingers itched to smooth it against the firm skin beneath, or ruck it up as he pushed Arthur against a wall.  He’d had more than one fantasy about that too.

Today was a no waistcoat morning, which meant that Arthur-after-lunch would prowl between them handing out stacks of information, suck black coffee like he needed it as an IV, and gradually give way to Arthur-in-the-early-evening.  

Eames preferred the waistcoated mornings, naturally.  A happy Arthur was a happy team, and early evenings weren’t really all that early anyway.  But if he was being honest with himself (always), Arthur-in-the-early-evening was his favourite.  By 8:00, Eames would push everyone else out of the warehouse if they were still there, and he’d get Arthur to himself.  They never talked about anything other than the job, but he could see Arthur-after-lunch relax a touch.  His shirt would have wilted a little, the collar not quite so stiff, and he oftentimes, although not always, would take off his tie.  

The silken slither of fabric from underneath his collar was like an aphrodisiac; Eames swore he’d never heard a sexier sound in his life.  Not even the slide of a belt or whir of a zipper could compare.  He would listen to it with his breath held, every muscle taut, and he’d let it all out once he’d watched Arthur fold the tie and put it in his jacket pocket.  Eames gave himself exactly 30 seconds. He’d let his mind wander, imagining the sounds Arthur would make if he used the tie to bind his hands, or cover his eyes, or the way he’d look in just the tie.  On more than one occasion the rush of blood flow south had been inconvenient, but when the 30 seconds was over, he would package it all back up, in the pristine, Zegna-styled box where he kept his Arthur fantasies, and store it in the back of his mind.  

They challenged each other and watched each other’s backs, Arthur going under and Eames keeping guard topside, or vice versa if Eames was on a roll, but eventually Eames poured out the pot and made a new one of decaf, and started saying things like, “When we come in tomorrow, you should…”.  Then he’d stack his work, and later he would systematically turn off lights and power down his computer.  Finally, he’d stretch, grab whatever jacket he’d brought for the day, and start sliding it on.  Arthur usually worked until he got to that step, then Eames would wait for him while he packed up his laptop, slung it across his body, and folded his jacket and waistcoat across his arm.  

Eames had learned early on that if he didn’t complete this grand charade, Arthur-in-the-early-evening would morph into Arthur-who’d-worked-all-night, and that was not a pretty sight.  He would be a rumpled mess, his trousers without a crease to be seen, his shirt wrinkled and twisted to one side, his hair loose and curled slightly where he’d worked his fingers through it, trying to get at the thoughts below.  Actually, the hair _was_ a pretty sight, and Eames admitted to himself (always) that he’d imagined running his own fingers through the gel-tamed style and unravelling Arthur in all the best ways.  But the rest of Arthur-who’d-worked-all-night was someone Eames wanted to bundle up and take care of.  His eyelids looked too thin, and the dark smudges under his eyes were highlighted by his pale cheeks and uneven stubble.  His trousers managed to droop below his hip bones, and instead of being devastatingly arousing, it combined with his sloped shoulders to give him an air of someone who was being physically dragged down, like taffy.  

It would take a few days for Arthur-who’d-worked-all-night to slough off his sleep debt and turn back into Arthur-in-the-morning.  So Eames made it a point to start their routine early on a job and not let up.  

“That jacket, Mr. Eames, is something else,” Arthur said as he stopped by Eames’s desk with the last coffee.

Eames grinned, accepting it and brushing imaginary lint from the shoulder.  “You like?”

Arthur just cocked an eyebrow at him, a half smile playing on his lips.  Eames had to focus on the small patch of skin at Arthur’s throat which had been uncovered by his slightly loosened tie because his lips were just too much.  Then Arthur turned and headed back for his desk.  “There’s a new pho place three blocks down.  That sound alright for lunch?  I can run and grab it.”

“That’s alright, darling,” Eames said, removing his jacket to drape over the back of the chair, “I can make the run, I’ve got to get petrol anyway.  Pho sounds magnificent, though.”

He looked up to see Arthur watching him, a knowing smile playing on his lips.  But he just nodded.  “Right.  I’ll get everyone’s order.”  

Then he held Eames’s gaze and slowly took off his tie.


End file.
